Libby always believed she was a good mother. She worked hard to keep her little home running, to make sure her seven-year-old daughter Lily had everything she needed—warm meals, clean clothes, and a bedtime story every night. But sometimes, even the kindest parents can forget that love is not just about providing; it’s about listening, too.
It was a Tuesday evening, just after dinner. Libby was tired from work, her mind still buzzing with unanswered emails and unfinished tasks. The kitchen was a mess—crumbs on the floor, dishes piled high, and Lily sitting at the table drawing instead of clearing her plate.
“Lily, please put your dishes in the sink,” Libby said, her voice already sharper than usual.
“In a minute, Mommy,” Lily replied softly, still coloring.
Something about those words—in a minute—pushed Libby’s exhaustion over the edge. She had asked her daughter three times already, and each time Lily seemed to ignore her. Without thinking, Libby raised her voice.
“I said NOW, Lily! You never listen to me anymore!”
Lily’s little hands froze. The crayon rolled off the table. Her blue eyes widened in shock. For a moment, she tried to hold it in, but her lips trembled, and tears began to spill down her cheeks.
“Mommy, I was just finishing the sun,” she whispered, showing her paper with a half-colored sky.
Libby’s heart dropped instantly. The anger in her chest melted into guilt. She hadn’t seen what Lily was doing—she had only seen the mess, the noise, and her own frustration.
“Oh, sweetheart…” Libby knelt beside her. “I’m so sorry. Mommy didn’t mean to yell.”
But Lily turned away, hugging her drawing close to her chest. “You’re always mad,” she said through sniffles. “I was making it pretty for you.”
Those words pierced Libby deeper than she could have imagined. The drawing wasn’t just a picture—it was a gift. Lily had been coloring a card that said I love you, Mom in big, crooked letters, surrounded by a yellow sun and pink hearts.
Libby took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her mistake. She gently wrapped her arms around her daughter, holding her tight. “I’m sorry, baby,” she said again. “Mommy had a hard day, but that’s no reason to yell. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Lily sniffed again, then slowly leaned into her mother’s hug. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “Can we finish it together?”
And so they did. Libby sat beside her, coloring the rest of the sky while Lily drew the biggest sun she could. The kitchen mess no longer mattered; the only thing that mattered was that they had found their way back to each other.
That night, as Libby tucked Lily into bed, she realized something important: being a good mother wasn’t about being perfect. It was about saying sorry when you’re wrong, and loving enough to learn from your mistakes.
As Lily drifted to sleep, Libby looked at the finished drawing pinned on the wall. The words I love you, Mom glowed beneath the soft lamplight—a reminder that even when we stumble, love always gives us another chance to do right.
